A Maybe Story
by CuppaTea13
Summary: Clint tells Natasha a story at her request- a story about something they would never get to understand: saga of ordinary, everyday life. This is a maybe story, not a fairy tale.


**So this was something that popped into my head and refused to go away (and let me get some sleep) until I had written it out. I have weird things running through my head before bed... Whatever. Hope you like. Read & review please!**

* * *

_It was raining in Reykjavik and they had finished the mission. They were waiting for their transport out of Iceland and watching the raindrops drip onto them. Clint noticed how they stuck to her hair like pearls weaved in her red hair, and clung to her eyelashes like crystal tears that she would never shed. Natasha noticed how it soaked his shirt so it was stained an even darker purple and the outline of the bandage on his shoulder was easy to see._

_"Do you ever-" she began, but stopped herself._

_"What?" he asks softly. It's a specific tone of voice he only uses on her- a soft, almost loving one that entices her to tell him everything and share her ledger with him and maybe wipe the blood off each other's hands instead of focusing so damn hard on cleaning it off by themselves._

_"Do you ever think, maybe?"_

_"Maybe what?"_

_"Just- maybe."_

_"I've got a whole maybe story."_

_She notices their ride is here. "You'll have to tell it to me someday."_

_"Ok."_

* * *

She's dying. Bruce tells them all- the whole team. And they all stand shock still. It seems impossible- wrong. Mainly for two reasons- even though she and Clint were both the most human on the team, the most vulnerable, the most easily injured, they never _seemed_ that way. Both the Hawk and Widow somehow, amongst a Norse god, thundering green Hulk, Super Soldier, and a man with a suit of iron armor, managed to seem the most untouchable. Also, the other members of the Avengers always seemed to just assume- in their minds- that if Natasha were to ever go down, Clint would be right next to her, and vice versa. It seemed wrong for one to be going somewhere the other wasn't following. They were one unit. Yes, the Avengers were a team, but Clint and Natasha were a single being.

The all enter the room softly, as if holding their breath will somehow allow her to breathe more and just _stop dying_. Bruce hangs out by the results of all her tests, examining them as if he could find a way to fix everything if he just focused hard enough. Tony slumped in a seat a few feet from the bed and Steve stood by the doorway as if afraid to enter. Thor took up a position near the window, obviously not quite comprehending death in the way only an immortal can.

Clint, though, Clint takes her hand and kneels beside her bed so he can easily be seen by her.

Her red hair is spread across the pillow like a stain of fresh blood and her pale skin is a few shades too white. She is still except for the steady rise and fall of her chest and her eyes are closed.

But when Clint takes her hand they open and without pause settle on the archer.

"Clint."

"I know, Tasha."

"Tell me our maybe story?" she asks. He never had gotten around to telling it to her, so he takes this chance now.

"Maybe, there was a girl named Natasha. And maybe, her parents never died in a fire. And maybe she was never sent to the Red Room. Maybe she never had to kill someone to survive. Maybe she got to study ballet and become a ballerina like she always wanted. Maybe her parents were able to watch her perform with the Imperial Russian Ballet Company. Maybe instead of soaking her hands in blood she leaped across the stage and told stories about princesses who turned into swans and girls whose nutcrackers would come to life. Maybe one day, she was in New York performing and she met a boy named Clint. Now maybe this boy's parents never died in a car crash. Maybe he had never fought his brother. Maybe he had never joined the circus and learned to shoot a bow. Maybe he got to grow up to be something stupidly boring like an accountant. Just enough to afford to go see a ballet. Maybe he got to meet the leading lady after the performance."

"Did they fall in love at first sight?" scoffed Natasha weakly, but without malice.

"No- of course not- this is a maybe story, not a fairy tale. But he kept pestering her to go out with him while she was still in the country until she agreed. Maybe they got to do normal things like going on dates and watching movies in theaters without automatically scanning for exits. Maybe they never identified all the places someone could conceal a weapon in a restaurant. Maybe they argued and forgave each other and fell in love over a long time. And maybe, since their lives hadn't been so screwed up, they were able to feel comfortable with it and go with it. Maybe instead of just knowing how they felt and working around it, maybe they were able to enjoy it."

The room was mostly silent as the other team members absorbed this fantastic tale- a saga of ordinary, everyday life. And, as they listened to Clint tell the Black Widow this "maybe story" they absorbed what they always knew about their teammates in a new light.

Clint continued, "Maybe he convinced her to marry his sorry ass. And maybe she believed in love and said yes. Maybe they moved into a suburb and had a white picket fence. Maybe they worried about good schools in the area rather than good stake out spaces. Maybe they had a couple of kids and didn't worry about assassins or secret government agencies and maybe they worried instead about organizing birthday parties and not forgetting anniversaries and whatever else it is that normal people worry about."

"Mortgages?"

"Maybe," he reached to tuck some hair behind her ear and his hand rested on her cheek as he continued to spin his legend. "Maybe they got old. And had grandkids they spoiled. And maybe they lived in a nice retirement home and terrorized all the nurses. Maybe they had arguments over how to write their wills for the sake of arguing rather than actually disagreeing. Maybe he still thought she was as beautiful as the day she appeared on stage in a burst of light and music. Maybe she still thought he was just as persistent as when he begged her to come to dinner with him just once. Maybe they were still in love and ninety years old and had grey hair," he gave a light tug on her vibrant hair here, "and wrinkles from aging rather than stress. And maybe one day the nurses came in to find that they both had died in their sleep at a ridiculous age and maybe they got buried in a regular old cemetery in their hometown where they raised their regular kids and had their regular lives. Maybe they never had to be apart. Or maybe one died before the other but it was ok because they were old and ready for it and maybe they were sure there was something after death and it was good and they were good so they would get there. And be together, of course.

"Maybe."

She takes in a stuttering breath, "I like that story."

"Me, too, Nat."

"I wish our maybe story was our _story_."

"I know. Me, too."

"Sorry that couldn't happen, Hawk."

"Me, too. But it's ok- maybe it did for someone."

"Maybe. Thanks for everything, Clint."

"Anytime, Tasha."


End file.
